


Pictures of You

by MooseFeels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:04:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High School AU: Castiel isn't coping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pictures of You

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: this is a story about self-harm. I like to think it ends happily, though.

He hates his body- hates his graceless elbows and pointed knees. He’s a stranger inside of it. He’s been told he won’t always be this fragile- that he’ll fill out like his brothers. He’s been told that he won’t always feel so different. He’s been told he’ll understand.

Castiel gets told a lot of things.

It’s been a month now since they took his razor away, and they’re loosing him from the institution. He feels like a hurricane when he crosses the threshold and sees the look on Gabriel’s face. He feels destructive, too big to be held, to be contained.

He feels like a grain of sand, so small, too small to matter.

He feels too many things. That’s why he had the razor.

The bandages were taken off, but the scars stayed. He doesn’t like to look at them. He doesn’t like to hide, them either.

Gabriel can’t find his humor, so they drive home in silence.

Castiel sleeps on the hardwood floor that night, curled around his headphones.

He starts school a week later, three weeks late into the semester.

He’s new.

His brother tried to talk him out of the coat (and could his older brother ever _talk_ ), but Castiel was stubborn. A rock.

He wears the coat, jeans, and a white t-shirt. He can almost pretend he hadn’t left the hospital. He’s invisible the same way, here. He reads. Speaks when spoken to. Takes his pill in the bathroom before second period. Doesn’t let his sleeves pull over his scars. Doodles in the margins of _A Tale of Two Cities._

He walks home, does his homework, and falls asleep with his headphones again.

A cycle emerges, and within a few days of school, he is rendered untouchable. He is pressed by no students, no teachers. He shuffles to class, does his work, picks at his sandwich (Nutella is not acceptable for food everyday, but Gabriel seems purposefully forgetful), comes home, tries to dodge his chatty brother, and sleeps.

He doesn’t miss the razor, that’s not quite the right way to say it. He misses the silence of it- a rush out of him and then total quiet as he fell out on the floor. He managed to do it quietly many times. It only takes one fuck up, though.

Only the music can eat up that awful noise inside of him, now, and he can’t ever seem to get the damn thing loud enough.

Gabriel jokes, awkwardly, that he’s going to ruin his hearing.

Castiel hopes silently that ruining his hearing will kill the noise.

He’s gliding through his English class (he’s read everything they’re talking about. he’s read their literary criticism, too). He’s gliding through all of his classes- it’s so damn _easy_. Honestly, Castiel is just gliding, one day to the next until a month blurs by and he’s getting his essay on _Hamlet_ back and the guy who sits in front of him turns around for the first time and says, “Damn, man, what’s your secret? You and Mrs. Moses shacking up or something?”

Castiel didn’t know how to react, and felt his head turning in confusion- tilting to the side like an owl. “Pardon?” He asked, faintly.

His voice was cracked from being unused.

His expression softened. “I was just joking,” he whispered, conspiratorially.

Castiel floundered, finally admitting, “I have no idea what your name is.”

He frowned in mock offense. “I’m hurt,” he prodded. “We’ve become so close. Look, I still have your pencil and everything.”

Castiel looked in his hand and- was that is pencil? Did he give him a pencil? He grasped for some kind of memory of an exchange, continuing to drown in the conversation before saying, “Sorry?”

The guy shook his head, extended his hand. “I’m Dean,” he introduced. “We have four classes together.”

Castiel took his hand, warily. “We do?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Dean affirmed. “Damn, you’re really out of it, aren’t you?”  
Castiel shrugged. “I lead a rich internal life,” he answered.

Mrs. Moses cleared her throat heavily, and Dean turned back around.

The rest of the day slipped by in the usual way.

Picked at his lunch. Homework. Picked at his dinner. Records on his bedroom floor.

His bed was still made from the day he came back from the hospital.

Through Jim Morrison’s acidic chant, he thought loosely of the boy who sat in front of him- Dean- with green eyes and blonde brown hair and freckles and broad shoulders.

He noticed the next day that they had Geometry, Chemistry, and History together, along with English. _Four classes,_ he distantly remembered. _Dean Winchester._

He turned around again. “You’ve got a weird name, right? Thistle or something like that?” He asked.

“Castiel,” he frowned. “It’s not weird. It’s the name of an angel.”

Dean frowned this time. “I didn’t mean weird, I meant it’s just…unusual.” He scratched the back of his head. “It’s just…you don’t often hear it.”

“No,” Castiel replied. “No, I don’t suppose one would.”

“You’re kind of new, aren’t you?” Dean asked.

Castiel nodded.

“I guess that would explain why you’re not really in anything. Are you into anything? Baseball? Swimming? Drama? Art?” He offered.

Castiel shook his head. “No,” he said, flatly.

“Oh,” Dean murmured, awkward under Castiel’s withering look.

Mrs. Moses coughed, repeating a page number. Dean almost looked grateful for the out.

Dean Winchester slipped through New Order on Castiel’s floor that night.

Castiel was really growing to dislike him.

Castiel started getting more and more of those annoying interactions with Dean Winchester. He didn’t forget things about him- he had a little brother, he lived with his father, he loved cars, he hated modern music, he was deeply superstitious.

He greeted him every day, interrupts his train of thought, and interrupts his time on the bedroom floor, every song dragging mention of Dean. Even the Mozart prompts  unwanted meditations on his eyes, his hands, his skin.

Castiel found himself increasingly hating Dean Winchester, especially when he wasn’t there.

He was walking back from school one day when he heard an unfamiliar rumble behind him and then- holy shit, was that a big car.

It was a beast, long and black and growling and damnit, he was behind the wheel. Dean Winchester, again interrupting his life.

“Hey,” he started.

“What the fuck is your damage?” Castiel shouted at him.

Dean squinted, looked taken aback. “What?” He asked.

“What is your damage?” Castiel shouted, throwing his backpack, his books, on the sidewalk so he could properly gesture. “Why do you talk to me? What do you want from me? Why can’t you leave me alone like everyone else?

Dean shrugged. “You don’t want to be left alone,” he said simply.

Well, _fuck._

“Would you like a ride home? I think I live just up the street from you,” he continued.

Castiel sighed heavily, picked up his things, and got in the car.

_Fuck_ if he knew why.

The seat sighed underneath him- black leather, the scent of sweat and stale take-out. Castiel set his things under the dash, beside his feet, and looked at Dean.

“I don’t know why I’m in your car,” he said.

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, me either,” he replied. “I’m glad you’re here, though. It looks like rain.”

As if on cue, thunder rolled. Cold rain began to fell.

They were well into September now, and summer had broken, shattered into coolness and windiness. Perhaps Gabriel had stopped pestering him about the coat because it had become _seasonal._

As the car moved, the whole thing rumbled and buzzed like a great cat. Purred.

Music drifted quietly through the speakers, and instinctively, Castiel turned it up.

Hard guitars, gut wrenching and slow poured out, and a voice screamed intangible pain.

“Oh hell yes!” Dean shouted, and he twisted the knob as hard as he could.

He mouthed along for a few beats before looking over at Castiel.

His confusion must have been painted across him, obvious, because Dean lowered the volume significantly and asked, “Not a Zepplin fan?”

“I’m not familiar,” he said. “Is that a man or a woman?”

Dean paled. “Jesus,” he murmured. “That’s Robert Plant on Vocals. That’s _the_ man.” He eased the volume back up, not so loud that it scraped the roof, but loud enough that it was noticeable.

It was so strange- the music sounded like pain, like totally rolling agony, but as he listened, Castiel shut his eyes and it was also so beautiful, so perfect.

“So when did you move here?” Dean asked.

Castiel shrugged against the seat. “May? I’m not sure. I had…a lot going on.”

Dean left that at that, let the man singing fill the space with wails. He didn’t press Cas until they got to the street, and said, “Alright, so which one is yours?”

“777,” Castiel answered.

“You’re fucking with me,” Dean shot back. “I’m 779.”

Castiel rolled his eyes behind closed lids. _Of Course_ they were neighbors.

Gabriel was highly amused by the development.

“And he lives next door?” He chuckled. “Well, why don’t we invite the whole Winchester Clan to dinner? I’ll make my famous cherry pie.”

Castiel rolled his eyes as he stomped up the stairs. “He’s insane. He won’t leave me alone. There’s clearly something wrong with him. I would know.”

He walked back to school the next morning in the cold, cold rain. He tried to push the worm of the man’s wail out of his mind- _said I been crying, oh my tears they fell like rain_ \- tried to push it out with the fuzzy edges of “King of Pain,” but the scream and the bright warmth of Dean’s damn eyes was the only thing that would stick.

Halfway through English, Dean turned around and said, “So apparently I’m having dinner at your place tonight?” He sounded somewhere between pleased and puzzled.

Castiel sighed heavily. “Gabriel’s idea. He doesn’t believe in a balanced diet, so if you want to escape without going into a diabetic coma, refrain from heavy sugars the rest of the day.”

Dean nodded. “Who’s Gabriel?” He asked.

“My older brother,” Castiel answered, frostily. “He’s my legal guardian. Listen, if you don’t turn around I am sure Mrs. Moses will write one of us up.”

Dean smiled, crooked his mouth up in the most fucking _infuriatingly_ nonchalant way, and raised his eyebrows. “Sure thing, Cas.”

He turned around while Castiel registered that he had a nickname now.

_Oh, what fresh hell is this._

Dean gave him a ride home again that afternoon. He pulled beside him and reached across, unlatching the door.

Castiel still wasn’t sure why he had gotten in the other day; he wasn’t sure why he was getting in now. He said as much- “Why am I doing this?”

Dean shrugged. “Got new music today,” he told him, pulling the volume a little louder. “You into Kansas?”  
Castiel shook his head. “Not really,” he answered. “I’ve heard _of_ them.”

Dean shook his head with deep disappointment. “Someone seriously stunted your musical education,” he commented.

Castiel snorted. “My father was a conductor, you ass.”

Dean laughed. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “yeah, worked with the local orchestra. Gabriel really shocked the family when he dropped the French Horn, but I guess every family has their disappointments.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Sam- my brother- he’s talking about college. Dad is…devastated.”

Castiel frowned. “Your father doesn’t want him to go to college?”

Dean shook his head. “No,” he said. “He wants us to stay here, take up the family business. I mean, I’m fine with that, but Sam, he’s so damn smart.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Castiel shot back. “I’ve seen your papers. You’re not nearly as bad as half of the imbeciles in this damn place.”

Dean laughed, spilling into the air. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you just complemented me.”

Castiel rolled his eyes- he was going to damage them at the rate he was doing that as of late. “I know. What the fuck is that?”

They pulled in front of his house and Castiel untangled himself from the car and slammed the door behind himself. “Thanks,” he called.

“See you tonight, Cas,” Dean replied.

Castiel cursed himself, itched his scars as he shut his front door behind him.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

The bell rang at five, and when Castiel opened the door, he greeted an older, gruff looking man, a teenage boy barely crooking into the doorway, and Dean.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean greeted.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replied. “I take it this is your father and brother?”

His father smiled. “Hi, you must be Castiel. I’m John Winchester. This is Sam.”

Sam smiled awkwardly and waved.

“Cassie, are you keeping our guests outside?” Gabriel squawked from across the house. “Let the Winchesters in!”

Castiel blushed as he held the door open.

As he entered, Dean inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “Oh my God,” he murmured. “That’s pie. That’s cherry pie.”

“Yes, Gabriel quite likes to bake. I can promise that it will be the only thing he puts on the table that’s entirely edible,” he warned.

Dean gave Castiel a look that said clearly, _It doesn’t matter. Pie._

Castiel smiled involuntarily and hated himself for it.

True to his warning, Gabriel produced a series of overcooked, poorly seasoned dishes. The Winchesters were not discriminating, however. They wolfed it down happily.

“I’m sorry,” John apologized. “We don’t get good home cookin’ that often.”

“You’re a flatterer, John,” Gabriel gushed. “If you’re going to complement my cooking, I might just keep you around!”

John smiled. “Your wife probably appreciates the help, eh?”

Gabriel giggled. “No woman’s made an honest man of me yet. It’s just me and Castiel.”

Castiel itched.

“Oh,” John replied. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Castiel’s mother was out of the picture.”

Castiel felt an incredible wave of…it felt like the rug had been pulled out from under him. The world spun, and he put down his knife and fork as he clenched shut his eyes against the white stars and black spots.

Gabriel smiled his most dangerous smile. “We’re brothers,” he clarified. “Our parents passed.”

Castiel left the table without excusing himself, clattering against the walls of the stairwell, trying desperately to make it to his bedroom without falling out.

He itched.

He itched for the rush and the silence.

He kept breathing, breath rattling as he shut his door and slid down it, onto the floor. His hands shook as he placed a record on the player. His nerves screamed as he slid the headphones on. All of him jittered and shook and spun like the record spinning lazily on the turntable, shook like the voice into the microphone sibililantly sighing _dreadful sorry clementine._

He fought the roar with whispers and breaths and quenched the burn inside of him with swallowed tears.

Several songs passed, and in the drifting space between one and another, Castiel heard a knock on his door.

He got up from the floor and opened the door, and Dean stood there holding two slices of pie a la mode. “You said it was the one thing that was any good,” he explained. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out.”

Castiel opened his door a little further, ushered Dean in.

He slid back onto the floor, yanking the headphone jack from his record player and freeing the song from its confines to fill the room.

Dean sat down, too, next to him, and handed him the pie.

“I’m not okay,” Castiel said.

Dean nodded. “Okay.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he added.

Dean nodded again. “Okay.”

He took a bite of pie, and his eyes flowed into the back of his skull in a look that could only be described as total bliss.

Castiel took a bite of his. It was alright, nothing special for Gabriel’s work. Even a little over sugared, if anything.

He couldn’t bring himself to tell Dean that, though.

He turned the volume up a little, and they ate, not speaking exactly, not being silent either.

They settled into something, and Castiel found himself not hating Dean and not hating himself for not hating him, either. It was something friendly, something comfortable. Castiel fit increasingly into the seat of his car every afternoon. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn’t.

Dean discovered Castiel liked stupid jokes one day in Geometry when he finished a worksheet and snorted accidentally (“What do you call cheese that isn’t yours? NACHO CHEESE.”). He began to collect them, whispering them to him throughout English.

Dean got written up one day after he made Cas have a laughing fit in the middle of a test (“How many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Fish.”).

He gave him a ride home that afternoon even after he called him a “fucking idiot.”

The itch subsided, becoming a murmur in the deep background.

It was almost like being happy again.

Castiel sat alone in English one day. He sat alone in Engish and the next three periods and he walked home, all the way. He was itching by the time he gots home.

He walked into his house, shut the door, and dropped his things on the floor. A fire hazard, if ever there was one but he _couldn’t give a shit._

He stomped up the stairs and looked out of his bedroom window at 779.

He looked out of his window, into the Winchester residence and felt something snap inside of him. Like an impossible dam breaking.

He grabbed his record player, thankful for its convenient handle, and stormed back out of his house to pound on _his_ door.

Castiel knocked for a solid ten minutes, persistent in rhythm and intensity. If someone was home- and he was because that _damn car_ was there- they would have heard it.

When Dean finally opened the door, Castiel shouted at him, top of his lungs, “Where the fuck were you today?”

Dean looked a little taken aback. “You know, this isn’t how people who hate each other act, you know that?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, sighed heavily, slumped in his clothes, and burst into Dean’s house for the first time, blowing past him. “I don’t care,” he said. “Where were you?”

“Stomach virus,” Dean answered hoarsely, shutting the door behind Castiel, looking at him with a mix of amusement and awe.

The Winchester house was exactly how Castiel had envisioned it. Warm colors. Dark wood. Only a handful of family pictures framed on the walls. A television. Some books.

“Where’s your room?” Castiel asked, turning to Dean.

Dean looked a little less amused, a little more awed now. “Upstairs,” he directed. “Follow me.”

Dean’s bedroom was a fucking _mess._ Laundry everywhere, papers everywhere, books indescriminate upon the floor, bed unmade, posters hanging skewed upon his walls.

Castiel surveyed it, witheringly. He kicked aside a crumpled shirt and what he was sure was last week’s English handout (Dean was far from organized) and sat. He plugged in the record player as Dean cleared a spot for himself.

“I don’t hate you,” Castiel admitted for the first time, superfluously.

“I know,” Dean answered.

“I missed you today,” He added.

Dean nodded. “Yeah,” he shot back. “I’ve been in pretty bad shape since yesterday. Sorry I didn’t let you know. I guess you made it home okay, right?”

“I don’t care about that,” Castiel bit back. “I mean, I missed _you._ I..ah, fuck.” he sighed. 

Dean smiled, smiled that awful, cocky, sure, obnoxious smile. “Aw, Cas, you’re making me feel all fuzzy.”

“It’s no wonder,” Castiel said. “It’s hot in here.”

Dean shrugged. “Then take off your coat, dumbass,” he teased.

Castiel pulled out of it, let it slide off his shoulders and expose his arms down just a bit, just enough but not too much.

“I’m sorry I yell at you,” he apologized.

Dean’s look appeared again- between awe and amusement. “I don’t mind,” he answered.

Castiel rolled his neck to look Dean in the eye, dead in his green, green eyes. “It’s not okay,” he said. “I’m an ass. My people skills are…rusty.”

Dean laughed. “You’re at least honest.”

“Oh,” Castiel chuckled, “to a fault.”

“Is this more of your soft music?” He asked. “I thought I’d taught you a thing or two.”

“This is _Rattle And Hum_ , you philistine,” Castiel laughed. He slid his arm from his sleeve and turned it up as the voices of a choir soared- _burning with the fire._

Dean gasped, and Castiel thought it was the music for a split second before he realized why.

Castiel looked at his arms with Dean’s eyes and felt himself grow ashamed.

He’d healed considerably, but there were still the marks left by the steel. Puckered lines that ran tapered down his arms. Some of them were almost invisible now, but some of them were thick and heavy. Some of them were inexpert and obvious and stupid and he turned away and pulled his coat back on and god he was so _stupid_ and-

“Wait.”

It was breathless, a shocked escape into the room.

“Wait,” Dean repeated, reaching out with big and strange and calloused but gentle hands. “Please.”

His hands made contact with his forearm, and with the most startling delicacy he pulled Castiel’s arm toward him.

Castiel was more scared in that moment than he had ever been holding the razor.

Dean’s gaze was totally trained on Castiel and with his other hand he traced the lines. He barely touched him.

“Why?” He whispered, his voice tearing.

Castiel swallowed, hard.

“They died,” he said. “My father and my other brothers, they died. Car crash. I was at home. Gabriel was in school.” He shut his eyes and licked his lips. “It was about ten months ago. It was messy. It was,” he bit his lip, hard. “It was loud and it was quiet and I couldn’t-“

New softness on his body, movement as Dean so gingerly pulled his arm upward and was in the most impossible way laying his lips on him.

It was so light he wouldn’t know it was there at all, had he not been watching it.

Dean’s lips- pink and soft and dry- started at the base of his hand and he moved up so slowly, following the lines Castiel put on himself and each one, each reverential softness changed something in Castiel.

They didn’t have many words sometimes, but rarely did they not speak at all.

Dean kissed up his arm, and he looked up and _damn_ him, he cupped Castiel’s face with those same incongruous hands and he held him there, staring at him with bright green eyes and awe painted as clearly across him as his freckles and he leaned in and kissed him.

Mingled with the dry whisper of his skin against Dean’s, Castiel heard the record player murmur _a river in a time of dryness_ and felt wetness on his cheeks.

_Oh god, I’m crying._

Everything was so very very soft, so very very tender, and when Dean pulled his mouth away, his eyes were huge.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My stomach virus-“

Castiel laughed, leaning against his forehead. “I don’t care.”

Dean smiled and leaned back, pulling Castiel on top of him, so gentle. Castiel looked at him, studied rise of his cheekbones, the tip of his nose. He fell in and felt the curve of his lips against his, giving into a warm mouth.

It was exactly like being happy again.

Dean pulled away again, a few moment later and whispered, “I’d like you to meet someone.”

He so gingerly slid out from under Castiel and left the room. He came back with a photograph.

She was smiling, the blonde woman in the picture. She was curled tight against two children- one of them a baby and the other barely not. She looked impossibly happy and full, staring through the photo with total, irrepressible love.

“This,” Dean explained, “is my mom.” Dean rubbed the edges of the photo with his thumbs, the same gentle touches. “A fire, when I was four. Sam and Dad and me, we barely made it out. She died trying to save Sammy.”

He handed the photograph over to Castiel.

Castiel held her with trembling hands. “Oh,” he whispered. “Hello, Mrs. Winchester.”

“I can’t,” Dean began, “I can barely remember her. I think she would have liked you, though.”

Castiel looked up from the photo, looked at Dean, and saw in him her features- the touch of blonde in his hair, the dotting of freckles, the ghost of her smile.

He reached through the canyon between them and held Dean’s hand.

They settled close and comfortable into each other, voices needing no more than a hush to communicate, the record running out of songs and only making the slow hiss of noiselessness.

“Do you have more?” Dean asked.

Castiel nodded. “My legs are a wreck,” he laughed without humor.

He pretended not to notice the way Dean’s eyes flicked to his thighs, the way he softened further, deeper.

“Does Gabriel know?” He asked.

Castiel nodded. “I got stupid. You can do it without getting caught, you know,” he answered. “Not too hard, not too deep; just enough to let it out. It feels,” he shook, “ _so_ good.”

He felt himself crying again, and he _hated_ it.

“I fucked up one night and went too deep. Passed out,” he continued. “Gabriel found me in the bathroom.” He pulled in closer to Dean. “I miss it.” He whispered. “I miss it and that _terrifies_ me.”

He looked so devastated as he asked, “Does Gabriel know?”

Castiel laughed again. “Gabriel doesn’t know anything, Dean.”

His fingers so carefully turned Castiel’s head, framing it so that he looked directly into Dean and he said, voice cracking, “Please talk to him.”

Castiel nodded. “Okay,” he whispered, laying his head on Dean’s shoulder.

He fell asleep there in the warmth of him and his room, in the coolness of his shared secret.

He woke up to the surprised shout of Dean’s younger brother. It was startling, a brief burst followed by a shocked, “Castiel?”

Castiel looked groggily into the doorway, and then out of the window and swore, “Fuck! Hello, Sam! I have to go.”

He tore himself from Dean and was halfway through the door and Dean cried, “Hey!”

Castiel froze, turned around.

“Do you promise?” He asked.

“I promise,” Castiel answered, and he meant it.

He ran down the stairs and crashed into his house where Gabriel stood in the foryer with his arms crossed, hip thrown out so severely he might break something.

“Where,” he demanded, “have you been?”

Castiel tucked his hand behind his head, opened his mouth and couldn’t quite speak. “I,” he started, and paused, painfully. “I’ve been next door?”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Is John Winchester going to knock on my door with a shotgun in ten minutes and demand a marriage?”

Castiel shook his head. “No,” he answered. “No. I..um, I want to talk.”

If Gabriel could have inched that eyebrow higher, he did. “I know he’s not pregnant,” he stated.

Castiel closed his eyes and released a shuddering sigh. “I want help,” he said.

His brother’s body eased. He relaxed out of suspicion and into something warm. “Really?” He asked, surprised.

“I want to be okay again,” he said. “I’m tired of being…angry.” He clenched and unclenched his fists, dodging eye contact, as if looking at him would somehow break his resolve. “I don’t want…I want to talk to someone?”

He looked up, terrified.

“I don’t hate you,” he said.

Gabriel smiled, always. He smiled as he pushed back tears and reached forward and hugged his little brother like he hadn’t in about ten months.

Castiel realized he’d left his father’s coat on Dean’s floor.


End file.
